


Phantom Other

by Startabi



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Eventual Smut, Explicit Language, F/M, Knifeplay, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of alcohol, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:20:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29257329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Startabi/pseuds/Startabi
Summary: Two stubborn fools caught in the game of chicken and sprouting feelings. When Din Djarin makes a pit stop in Tatooine he meets you, a mechanic who he continues to run into
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	Phantom Other

**Author's Note:**

> ok yall so this is a two patter I'll have the second chapter out next week with the smut! so dONT EVEN WORRY

Space is cold—

Mando doesn’t think much of it—never had. The beskar and the many layers adorning his body provides the insulation and quite frankly—he _enjoys_ the cold. The bitter nip of cool air against skin is a reminder that he’s still _alive_. That he hasn’t yet molded to the beskar and thick swaths of fabric like some kinda weird turtle. 

The little green bundle that sits in the copilot’s chair behind him sneezes. 

Not everyone likes the cold. Especially the baby. 

The child coos, his large green ears perking when Mando spins the pilot’s seat around. His tiny clawed hands reach for Mando as he pulls him into his lap. “Wanna go visit a friend?”

Allies are hard to come by— _friends_ even more so. Rarer than kriffing _beskar_. It comes with the job, you don’t exactly come across the most _desirable_ people working as a bounty hunter _or_ as a Mandalorian. Though, through all odds and his cold demeanor, Mando has made a couple friends here and there. 

Peli Motto is one of the select few people he considers as a _true_ friend. Rough around the edges with a whip smart mouth—but a friend nonetheless. She means well with unsolicited parenting advice and whatnot--a _great_ babysitter--the kid seems to like her.

Mando punches in the coordinates for Tatooine and arrives a couple hours later. Hanger number four. When he lands it’s well into the middle of the night--Peli’s pit droids the only thing to greet him when the landing dock is loaded. He does feel a _bit_ bad for knocking on her door, but knowing the her she was probably up anyway fiddling with some obscure engine model or strange invention. 

When he rasps his knuckles over the blast doors, the razor sharp edge of unfamiliarity bites at his throat as the door slides open—he’s _expecting_ Peli to be here not…not whoever _you_ are. 

Din jumps to the worst—grasping onto every nightmarish possibility instead of _y’know_ —considering he might’ve knocked on the _wrong_ door. 

_“Who are you?”_ He’s bristles, tilting his hip back to better conceal the child. 

Your face, already sporting a pinched frown, drops into an irritated glower. “And who the fuck are _you_ , _bucket head?”_

“Peli—“ He bristles, his gloved hand hovering above the blaster strapped to his side. “Where is she?”

“ _Who’s_ asking?” You bite back, your own hand twitching towards the blaster strapped around your waist. 

“ _I_ am.”

“Gee, thanks,” you quip. “ _Real_ helpful.”

You’re no better than two stubborn fools caught in a game of chicken—neither of willing to _concede_ and sort out a _logical_ explanation to this whole debacle. The only thing that risks moving is the grainy dust, swept up by the arid wind and the lamp above the doorway that flickers every few seconds. 

Living behind a helmet for the majority of his life, the art of reading a face is as easy as breathing for Din—but yours is _tricky._ No obvious nervous tic or the sliver of fear when faced with a fully armored Mandalorian. _However_ —despite the cool mask of bravery you wear, the eyes are always telling. But even _then_ , it’s unexpected. 

For the first time in _months_ , Din’s heart lurches inside his chest. The hair on the back of his neck pricks into fine points—wispy tendrils of doubt lacing around his throat.

_Your_ eyes are devouring, dark and filled with billowing layers of ardor that are more comparable to volcanic ash than human emotion. He’s stuck in place, the intensity equal parts fascinating and menacing—like gazing into the void of a dying star, too dark and bottomless yet much too bright for the human eye to stare at straight on. 

He’s _certain_ the beskar is close to _melting_ off his body when;

_“Enough with the pissing match!”_

The exasperated bark of a certain Peli Motto floods his chest with relief. Your lip is still curled in a dangerous sneer, still holding your ground and showing no signs of budging. Peli’s hand drops over your shoulder, tamping out that little flame of resistance. 

You step to the side with a huff and a venomous glare. Din is thankful for it—like a weight lifted off his ribcage. “You know this clown?” 

“It’s _Mando,”_ Peli snaps back, rolling her eyes in your direction as if that were common knowledge. “I told you about him remember? Y’know, the one who _insisted_ I repair his ship by _hand_. Who even _does_ that nowadays—people living in the stone age that’s who—“

Peli’s _astute_ criticisms of his no droids policy—or lack thereof _now_ —drifts into background noise. It’s difficult to shrug off the prickling tickle of eyes glaring holes into the back of your head. Perks of the job—always aware of who is _watching_. 

Your punitive glowering is unwavering—arms crossed over your chest as you lean up against the wall like an uninvited shadow. Bristling and monitoring every slight move he makes in case things turn _sour._ It’s natural for the circumstances. The two of you were ready to tear out each other’s throats hardly ten minutes ago—he’d feel the same if he weren’t so trusting of Peli and the kid acting as the natural buffer. 

“ _Oh_ —stop acting so _prickly_ ,” Peli chides, landing a playful backhanded slap to your shoulder as she pushes past you to the hangar. Your brows lower in a deeper glare as they slide onto Peli. “He’s not gonna bite. I trust him with my life!”

“Well I _don’t,”_ you grumble, kicking off the wall to follow your aunt. 

It’s a prickly first meeting—one that lasts the entire two days Mando stays on Tatooine. It lessens only a smidge after you lay eyes on the kid you so affectionately refer to as _Creature_. Goblin a close second. You’re endearing...in a way a wild Fyrnock is. He’d label you as _mysterious_ too but that’s only due to you flat out ignoring him unless your aunt happened to be near by. Courteous until her back is turned. 

Mando doesn't complain. You work on the Crest is the best it’s ever received (you somehow got the hyperdrive to bump up two an astounding 80%). When Mando leaves you watch him go--arms crossed with a glare. Even for the briefness of meeting you, the shape of your face haunts him for days. 

-=-=-=-=-

Never, in the entirety of your life did you think you’d return to Tatooine. _Tatooine_ for _fuck’s_ sake. A literal sandbox that upholds no feasible joy unless you count the annual womp rat raid or the pod races in Mos Espa. Even then— _yikes_.

Didn’t think a kid nicknamed _Wormie_ would be the one to blow up the Death Star _either_. Or yknow, dethrone Jaba the Hutt with some fancy laser sword. Or was it a chain? Ah, whatever—good _riddance_ to that slimy pile of sentient boogers. 

_Anyway_ —

You should have followed Wormie’s example and steered clear of this place—taken up that permanent post as Red Leader for the Alliance and live out your days in a cushy position on Naboo or something. But, you never did enjoy taking the path of least resistance, you’re a _pilot_ after all. Live and die for all that risky shit—the thrill of a fight and near brushes with death. You’d rather stake out your own journey in life—forge out a path so bright that other’s cant help but envy.

Growing up on Tatooine, there weren’t many kids your age—you were always the youngest by nearly four years (not that it ever stopped you from nipping at the older kids’s heels). To this day you can still recall every face, every dumb nickname and inside joke you all created—all the dares and stupid challenges like licking a womp rat’s tail or eating a handful of sand (you _always_ won). Wild and free like a pack of yipping dogs—smiling, dirt stained faces and scuffed up boots worn down to the sole each month. Scrapes and bruises were flaunted as trophies, a chipped tooth like a shiny metal pinned upon the chest. Trouble wasn’t in the vocabulary of your mouth’s—back then it was just _fun_. 

But time has a way of twisting and mangling the glimmer of childhood. Everyone grew up—more responsibility and less time to play on the dunes. School instead of riling up a nest of whatever doomed creature you could find. Petty arguments that turn into venomous resentment, culminating rifts in friendships and the battle of loyalties between friend groups. 

You’re not sure when the bitterness of living on Tatooine settled in. Sometime between your first schoolyard fight over who would get the desk near the window and the gossip of your upbringing that followed you around like an ugly second head. Or maybe it the way everyone assumed you’d morph into the collective—a moisture farmer or maybe a mechanic like your aunt. One thing always stayed the same. You _never_ outgrew the snarling beast that festered in your chest, it only grew with you over time. 

Call it the age difference or the simple fact you were more feral creature than child, the two people who stuck around for the long haul were the neighbors’ kids. You chased off everyone else—decided that being alone was better than falling in step with mediocracy and someone else’s footsteps. If anyone would leave Tatooine first, it was going to be _you_. 

Then Biggs left. 

The Skywalker’s farm burnt down, the entire family too, shortly after Biggs’ departure. Everyone assumed Luke died along with them—you believed it as well. Scoured the farm and the corpses with blurry eyes and the hurt, worse than ripping off fingernails with tweezers, bloomed in the cavity of your heart. The worst part of it all was no one _cared_. No one gave a shit about the culprits or impeding war that was always glossed over on the local radio—they were all fine with _sitting_ and becoming _complacent_. 

A year passed—and the night of your sixteenth birthday you jumped ship the second the opportunity presented itself. Living in a space port had it’s perks—someone was always going _somewhere_. You snuck on board of a clunky freighter headed towards Takodana and that was it. Fueled by spite and the need to be part of something _bigger_. 

The rest happened in a blur. You joined the Alliance—you found Biggs _and_ Luke, alive and well, only to be ripped apart by different destinies another time over. You became a pilot—Red Leader in fact, and _damn_ good at it. Helped blow up the Death Star (the _second_ one that is) and that was that. 

No one tells you that returning home is the scariest part of it all. But—it’s _Tatooine_ for Kriff’s sake. Hardly anything had been touched, the people all the same and uninterested in the outside world. A relieved hug from Peli had been expected—no anger at your unapproved departure—just a resentful frown at the stitched up laceration over your brow and part of your cheek. She didn’t yell about how worried sick she’d been or the lame and infrequent, encrypted holovids you sent to assure that you _were_ still alive and not blown to bits. You told her you didn’t expect to stay long… _funny_ how it’s been five _years_ since then. 

_Look at you know_ , you think with a bemused scoff. Washed out and living in your aunts hangar in the prime of your youth. Guess your glory days had come to a lazy, halting stop. 

The life of a mechanic in Mos Eisley is never overwhelmingly busy—a day or two off every now and then if you so choose. Only thing you frequently find yourself doing is participating in a long standing rivalry between you, a broom, and and the congregation of overly _curious_ Jawas. One night—one _kriffing_ night you left a rusty speeder and a couple power converters out and _now_ they think it’s easy _pickings_ — 

_Whatever_.

As long as they don’t start physically manifesting inside the spaceport it’s fine. Totally _cool_. 

Besides swatting the little creatures away with your trusty broom each morning to clear a path, there’s not much to do on Tatooine—not unless you fancy throwing in on a Sabaac tourney or brushing elbows with none too desirable folk. You stick to the landing dock and _work_. Busy hands keep the mind occupied after all.

But it’s _Tatooine—_

Dust storms that’ll scrape up the insides of you nostrils and make your nose bleed or leave you blind, Imperial sympathizers, smugglers, you _name_ it. You never make a habit of familiarizing yourself with whoever lands in your hangers—bad for business and honestly? You’d rather not get kidnapped and sold off to the Spice mines on Kessel for opening your big fat mouth. 

So, _naturally_ your only option for a cheap drink and the affirmation that, _yes_ , you can in fact still leave Tatooine whenever you’d like, is to go off-world. 

Bakura is a hop away—far enough you never run into anyone twice and close enough that the charter fare is dirt cheap. It’s always the same cantina, same back left corner that provides an excellent view of the exit and the neighboring lavatories that boasts amusing in-house drunken brawls. What’s better than this? Guys being dudes—petty squabbles over fragile masculinity and an urge to prove something _dumb_. 

Tonight is slow—regulars night you suppose. Or is it a weekday? _Maker_ you don’t even know what day it is. 

Sighing, your eyes lazily crawl over the drab decor in the cantina, sipping on a neon blue drink that tastes like those little blue candies. Y’know—the ones that grandmas always have stashed away in delicate glass bowls and _insist_ you take a handful even though the candies are the same age, if not _older_ than grandma. 

You pinch the little black straw between your fingertips and take another sip. Too sweet for your liking, but a damn good chaser for the Corellian fire whiskeys you’ve amassed. In fact, just as you’re putting the rim of the shot glass to your lips, the liquor already bright and hot against your bottom lip—you see _him_. 

There, in the opposing corner of the dingy cantina, you spot the familiar sheen of tempered beskar. Neon lights from the nearby exit reflect off his cuirass, hyperspace blue that switches to fuchsia pink then back again like a dizzying light show. His helmet is tilted in the direction of the bar, analyzing the couple lingering near the last two stools. You know the little lime green Twi’lek—not by name—but because she’s always somehow wrist deep in her target’s pocket while they all but drool over the deep cut of her cleavage. None the wiser as they’re robbed blind. The poor bastard currently playing into her finely spun web is _no_ different. 

_Good for her_ —

You flick your eyes back over to the Mandalorian and force down a surprised cough as the full weight of his attention settles on _you_. The likelihood of him being here on matters concerning you are high, but _Stars_ , you weren’t _expecting_ him. How’d he even get inside without you noticing anyway?

The guy is a walking armory donning beskar that sparkles brighter than kriffing diamonds and worth more than than the entirety of Tatooine you’d bet—he’s _not_ an easy thing to miss. Mando is _broad—_ even more so with the added bulk of armor, and in _theory_ that much metal _should_ make some sort of sound.

You scratch your brow with your thumb and sigh. _Fuck_ —you must be loosing your edge or you’re drunker than you thought. 

_Well_ —no use just sitting here and having an awkward staring contest you certainly won’t win—might as well invite him over. You raise your hand in a begrudging wave and pull your face into a mask of an indifference. Mando places his hands on the table and pushes off to stand, tattered cloak scraping along the sticky floor as he covers the short distance between you. 

Gesturing to the open seat on your right, Mando takes up the offer and sits with a muted grunt—guess that armor _is_ heavy. 

“Funny seeing _you_ here,” you sigh, kicking back a shot of another fire whiskey. The glass clinks against the sticky table and joins the growing array of crystalline tumblers. One of _those_ nights where the pain of the past stings worse than alcohol splashed into an open wound. “Did Peli send you? I left a note, y’know.”

“I’m not here for you,” he assures, a smooth rasp even with the static distortion of the vocoder. He turns his head and sweeps the room with poised nonchalance—your heart jumps as the darkened visor returns to you with a weight heavier than the catch and pull of a black hole. “You got a habit of running off?”

Your bottom lip tastes bitter as your tongue passes over it. “Depends on who you ask.” 

_“Hm.”_ Mando’s pensive hum tapers off into stagnant silence. 

This is why, you think with a miserable frown, you always drink on your own. Too many awkward pauses like this and the embarrassment of being tipsy in front of a sober person—you’re off your guard. Plus—you’re not even sure why he’s here— 

You clear your throat and beckon over the bartender with a wave of your hand—Ekah is working tonight. A Mirialan around your age—skin the color of fresh honey and pale green eyes to compliment. Ekah taps two fingers to his temple in acknowledgment and finishes scrubbing down a tumbler with a rag that’s seen better days. He steps around the bar and wanders to your table, his right brow quirking in curiosity at the sight of the Mandalorian. 

“Finally making friends, Skitter?” The hexagonal tattoos inked into the sharp slopes of his cheeks crinkle as he smiles. “And here I was, thinking _I_ was special.”

“Fuck off, Ekah.“ You scowl. “ _Neither_ of you are my friend.” 

Ekah gasps and places a hand over his heart in mock offense. “So _cruel_ for such a sweet face.”

Your eyes narrow. “ _Ekah_ —“

He sighs, roll his eyes and waves his hand in a shooing motion. “Alright, alright—what is it you want?”

“Closing tab—“ you spare a glance at Mando. He cocks his head to the side. “—uh, unless—do you want…anything?” 

_Stars_ that was awkward. 

Mando lifts his palm off the table and shakes his head in a _no_. You figured, because of the helmet and all…Worth a shot. 

“ _Great—“_ You nod, shifting onto your weight to fish out the credits in your pocket as Ekah announces your total.

Yet before you even have the physical money in your hand, Mando reaches into his supply bag and pulls out the full amount, _plus_ a hefty tip. “I’ve got it.”

Mando hands it over much too quickly for you to protest and Ekah, opportunistic as a bartender is, collects his credits and shoves them into his pocket, never to be seen again. 

“Cheers, metal man,” he grins. He spares Mando a salacious wink and spins on his heel, a couple midnight black strands of his hair falling out of place as he hurries back to the bar. “See ya ‘round, Skitter.”

Your brows furrow as you puff out your lower lip, head swiveling to glare at Mando. “Why’d you do that? I can pay for _myself_.” 

Mando has the _audacity_ to shrug. “Wanted to. We’re _friends_ aren’t we?”

He knows _damn_ well where he stands. You clench your jaw and jerk your eyes back to the table. It never sits right with you when someone offers to pay—feels like a slimy rock in the pit of your stomach. On Tatooine you learn to fend for yourself at an early age—leaning on the help of others tended to land you in more trouble than you could shake off. Worst case you ended up at Jabba’s Palace as a nice little side dish for the local rancor, best case you payoff the favor working at a moisture farm for a couple days. 

Simply put—no one does a favor simply for _free_. 

Anyone who _offers_ is cause for suspect. 

But then again—Peli trusts him…

You exhale loudly, irritated by the sudden bout of silence, and shift to move from you chair, but he stops you with a question. 

“Why do you call yourself Skitter?” He says it _softly,_ not meant to offend or demand your compliance. Whatever he picks apart, he does it with precise and _patient_ skill—simultaneously seeking insight on who you _are_ while granting that thin veil of anonymity. Simply wedging his foot into an already cracked door. 

Your eyes slip from the harsh lines of Mando’s helmet to the splotchy grease stains covering your knuckles. No matter how much you scrub or pick at them, the dirty smudges never seem to disappear—permanently _ingrained_ into your skin like a gods awful tattoo. Doesn’t stop you from roughly rubbing the pad of your thumb over your index finger in hopes that it _might_ just work this time. You sigh and curl your fingers into fists—no use. 

Lying to him crosses your mind—spin some absolute bantha shit story about how you won the Boonta Eve Classic and how you _earned_ the name. Or maybe you could tell him you’re a part of a highly covert crime ring and speaking your name aloud will assure you a one way ticket to the grave within the hour. You’re not sure how well _that_ one will fly, but hey—you’ve convinced a couple of morons here and there. 

_However_ —Mando is no moron. 

He wouldn’t pry the truth out of you like a crooked incisor with rusty pliers— _no_. _This_ is a game of _trust_. By extension on Peli’s behalf you’re reliable—one of the _good guys_ that offers safe heaven for himself and the little green terror each time he lands that literal pile of scrap metal in hangar four— _always_ hangar number four. 

It still doesn’t negate the fact that Mando knows jack _shit_ about you. Just a grouchy mechanic with bloody knuckles and a mouth sharper than a bowl of tacks. This is him offering an olive branch of his _personal_ trust. By choosing to lie you would be severing the rare reveal of a kind heart with a vibroblade dipped in venom. You don’t know what he thinks he’ll find or what’s to gain from you revealing a bare thread of yourself but— 

Whether it’s the blend of spiced rum and fire whiskey that helps loosen your tongue into speaking, or just the simple fact that you actually kinda… _enjoy_ Mando’s company—you tell him. 

“ _Peli_ —“ You begin, your lips quirking at Mando’s unsurprised huff upon hearing your aunt’s name. “I was, like, a little kid when I went to live with her—four or five maybe?” 

You spare a quick glance at Mando. His vambraces chink against the edge of his cuirass as he leans back in his seat. He laces his fingers together and rests his hands just above where his codpiece _should_ be; and as you draw a breath he tilts his head ever so slightly to the right, exposing more of the metallic earpiece to better hear you. 

He’s being _polite—_

You blink and drop your eyes back down to the empty glass you fiddle with. You never dwell or find it in your to care about what others think of you—too much energy wasted on perceptions that you’ll never be privy to. Say what you mean and repercussions be damned. So why is it that your heart begins to flutter like a distressed creature in the clumsy palms of a curious toddler? 

A wildfire blush races up your neck and burns hotter than a miniature sun in your cheeks. You swallow and reach up to toy with the loose baby hairs that curl next to your ear. “Y-you ever, um, see a sand skitter before?”

Mando shakes his head.

“They kinda look like slugs,” you say, separating your forefinger and thumb to show Mando a guesstimate of their size. “Fast little fuckers though—they like to hang out around Jabba’s Palace. B-but _anyway_ —“ 

You clear your throat and continue. “Peli always said I looked like them back then—squishy and _small_. It didn’t help that I ran around around like a wild waste creature either—got into more trouble than you can even _imagine_.”

Mando’s amused huff crackles out of the vocoder. “I think I can.”

Another blush heats your cheeks. It’s the damn alcohol—it _must_ be. You should tell him to fuck off—take his metal, bucket-head looking ass straight back to Tatooine and leave you alone. What makes him any different from all the other people you’ve batted away? You don’t know—you don’t _know—_

Instead of all the things you _should_ say, you wrench off another branch of yourself and gladly put it into his outstretched palm. 

“I..uh—I don’t think I’ve used my name—my _actual_ name in years,” you confess quietly. The admittance is a strange one—makes the back of your throat tighten while plucking at tender heartstrings you didn’t know existed. “Even in the Rebellion I was just… _Skitter_.”

In the Rebellion everyone has a number, a nickname, a call-sign—no one cared who you were because when they risked doing so they opened themselves up to _pain_. It’s easier to be nameless—keeps you focused on the task at hand. 

But it’s _over_ now—it’s _done_. 

He lets the silence settle and you _know_ what he’s going to ask. You see it in the way his armored shoulders raise to take a breath and the crackling curiosity that practically sparks off the metal. Nonetheless, it’s still like getting shot pointblank in the chest the second he asks. 

“Will you tell me?” 

Such a simple question shouldn’t _scare_ you. Pure and simple fear that better belongs on a feral fyrnock backed into a corner with only it’s sharp teeth to protect itself. Joining the Rebellion _should_ have scared you—hoisting yourself into that worn cockpit every day with the promise of death and gut wrenching adrenaline should have _terrified_ you. The crash on Endor that left a scar over your left brow and broke seven ribs is far more daunting than someone asking you for your _name_. 

“I’m willing to trade.”

You’re clever enough to realize that this is his way of assuring you that trust is a two way street. He knows the importance of a name better than anyone else—how these sorts of things aren’t meant to _be_ traded—but both of you are making exceptions tonight, even if it’s _dangerous_. 

You’re both playing with matchsticks around a barrel of coaxium, one slip of a finger and you’d both go up into volatile flames that will rattle the very seams of the galaxy. Mando is showing you how willing he is to offer a piece of himself at your feet—so long as you do the same. 

You sigh and close your eyes. “O-ok…yeah— _yeah_.” 

As you lean to the side he folds at the waist to meet you. You take another inhale—the last breath before plunging into an ice cold sea—and maybe…maybe it’s not as scary as you once thought. 

The chapped swell of your lips brush along the frigid beskar as the syllables of your name bubble past your teeth. It tastes foreign and odd in your mouth, like cotton or the creaky hinges on a rotting window pane. 

You like it better when _he_ says it. 

The slow drawl of your name repeated back to you is the first breath of spring in the unending winter within your chest. There’s always been a slowness, a stillness in the delicate redwood needles of your bones that glitter with a thick layer of frost. No clever fox or brightly plumed bird resides here—no whispering, pushing wind that dances with the slow creak of ancient tree trunks. Here there’s only overgrown, dark rooted trees and bone white snow—something mistaken for being _alive._

_Skitter_ is the name of a girl who drowns in the acrid smoke that bellows from her lungs and disastrous flames that spill from the gaps in her ribcage. It outmatches nebular implosions, leaving behind entrails of embers that burst and flake off from her skin like brittle wood thrown into a funeral pyre. Even the sharp curve of a rabid smile shows something of that all-consuming _hunger—_ something never meant to survive for long. No life has ever made its way into her bones, but the flames that transform blood into ash and anger shine in her eyes.

_Your_ name—the one that sun speckled light touches and spreads inside of your lungs, urging Mando to whisper in quiet tones meant only for your ears. It promises that _this_ is only the beginning—that there is gentle starlight instead of war smoke and _here_ there is something beautiful waiting for you. Someday the heavy snow that buries your body under its weight will melt and give way to the delicate bloom of ferns and creeping lichen. _Hope_ crackles in your blistered palms, transforming into the wings of a sparrow and the very same warmth that you dream of holding. 

Goosebumps rush down your spine and every inch of skin as Mando repeats your name a third time—speaking it as if it’s a prayer to some long lost deity wearing a circlet of stars and a mouth made of rose petals. But it’s only _you_. _You_ who sits in the back corner of a shitty cantina, dressed in neon light while you and a Mandalorian whisper secrets that are long since forgotten to the world into each other’s ears. 

But the slow grace of become gentle is a long one, and there’s much to learn. “You call me that in public and I’ll strap your tongue to a belt sander and set it on high.”

Mando chuckles at your empty threat and leans more of the broadness of his shoulders into your space. “My turn.”

The icy cold beskar touches parts of your ear and jaw, his even breathing amplified by the static crackle of vocoder. This close, you can feel the helmet buzz over your skin. 

_“Din.”_

_It suits him—_ sweet and simple. 

And like he knows you’re itching to shy away from the chilling unfamiliarity of bearing your heart, Din leans closer. You’re not _trapped,_ but he’s forcing your hand to either flee like you’ve always done or confront _him_. 

You stay. 

He moves his hand glacially slow so as not to startle you, granting you an opportunity to slip free, but you hold steady. The padded leather covering his thumb touches the side of your chin, and out of habit you flinch. The weight of his thumb immediately retracts, but with a mumbled apology and a weak smile of encouragement, he returns. 

Mando— _Din_ —cradles your chin between his forefinger and thumb and traces a light back and forth pattern, the worn leather soft against your skin. Desire bubbles in your chest like heartburn, and all you know right in that second is you _need_ more of _him—hungry_ for any scrap he offers. You lift your hand and curl your fingers over the top of his knuckles and with a little tug, you coax Din’s open palm over your cheek.

Staring into that endless black visor, your eyes flutter shut as you lean into his hand. Vulnerability tastes strange on the tongue—still have to wrestle back the urge to snap and chase him away. You’d be content staying like this all night but… 

Tonight is not the night for it apparently—

_Fuck_ —

All those drinks hit you with a gut wrenching wave of dizziness worse than clipping a short corner in the Diablo Cut—same kinda feeling you get after pigging out on starcherry pies and then taking a high-stakes joyride on your dad’s spiffed out speeder. 

You squeeze your eyes until you see little bursts of light and suck in a deep breath, beating back the nausea with sheer willpower and the very present dread of puking all over Mando’s chest plate. What a fucking spectacle _that_ would be. 

You cringe and slump from his palm and into the dark fabric of his cowl, the sharp smell of ozone and something woodsy a pleasant surprise to your senses. _Maker—y_ ou could stay here all night, breathing him in _._ You’re lucky he’s wearing his helmet—you fucking _stink._ You’ve been marinating in the acrid stench of cheap spirits and cigarette smoke for _hours_ and you _know_ it’ll take days to scrub it off your skin and clothes like shitty perfume or spilled jet fuel. 

“Are you taking a nap?” Mando accuses—the lip of his helmet knocking against your ear as he tries to confirm his suspicion.

“ _No,_ ” you grumble, “‘m smelling you.”

“ _What?_ ” Din’s shoulder jump with a unbelieving snort. 

You huff and bury your nose deeper into the swath of fabric. “You smell good. Like—like one of those…those candles.”

You feel his chest rise and fall with a deep sigh. “I think it’s time to go home.”

“So you _are_ here for me,” you scoff, raising your head to shoot him a weak glare. “How’d Peli convince you?”

“Offered to take it out of your pay.” 

“Damn, that shit sucks.” You retort, lifting yourself from the stiff beskar to rub at your tired eyes. “Lemme—lemme guess—“ you hiccup and point an accusing finger. “That piece of junk ship got fuckin’ _trashed_ and—and you expect me to _fix_ it.” 

Din cocks his head to the side, shrugs and moves out of his seat, offering you a hand. You shoo it away with a feeble glare and help _yourself_ up, albeit a bit _wobbly._

“You have talented hands.” He purrs next to your ear as you attempt to stomp past him. “I’m sure you can manage.” 

“ _Yeah_ —“ You sniff, each step a blurry stumble towards the exit. “You bet I fucking do.”

His soft laugh whispers behind you—

You hate how much you _like_ it. 

Din ushers you onto the very ship you vowed _never_ to take a ride in, solely due to the fact that this thing has been trashed more times than you can count. You cringe just _thinking_ about the innards of the Crest you so begrudgingly fixed—probably all fried to hell and busted up _again_ — 

_Surprisingly_ , the ship flies fine. Suspiciously smooth sailing, enough that you even manage to doze off in your chair. Until you’re so _rudely_ awakened. 

It’s a little tickle on the side of your temple—like a stray hair pushed out of place by a breeze. Half lucid, you grumble and furrow your brows at the sensation, hoping it’ll piss off and leave you be—

The bluntness of calloused fingertips caress over the ridge of your brow, then sweep to the shell of your ear, thumbing at a lock of hair in muted wonder. The same kind of fascination you’d see on someone who’s never felt the texture of another’s hair because of the heavy gloves they wear like a second skin. You crack an eye open, confirming the culprit just as his _bare_ hand dances over your cheek and skins along your jaw. 

Din’s hand freezes, hovering in midair the moment your sleepy eyes catch over his visor. You roll your lip between your teeth, attempting to solely focus on his helmet instead of the brown, sun-kissed hand inches from your face. You’re not sure what’s considered rude or blasphemous in Mando culture, but airing on the side of caution with things like this is best. 

“You snore.”

You blink. “What?”

“I said you snore in your sleep.” 

Din spins on his heel faster than you can process and exits the cockpit. _Huh_. 

_Alrighty then_. 

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you stand and follow after him. You squint as the loading ramp is lowered, the change in lighting creating a dull ache behind your eyes. Mando hovers at the end of it, patiently waiting for your sleepy self to join him. He’s docked just on the outskirts of town you note—he’s not staying for long. You were just a detour. 

You sigh, face souring as the first rays of sunlight whisper across the glittery yellow smudge of the horizon. Sand scrapes your cheeks and tickles the inside of your nostrils as a gust of torrid air sweeps down from the nearby bluffs, promising another scorching day that’ll make the skin on your nose peel and flake off. Absolutely _putrid_. “I fucking hate this town.”

Mando makes no comment on his end, just rests his palm over your lower back and guides you forward. This shouldn’t be _miserable—_

He isn’t marching you off to your death or anything—just an end of a chapter you didn’t intend on closing so soon.

Isn’t it funny when you’ve got an entire speech’s worth to say and yet all of it decides to stay stuck on the roof of your mouth? But that’s the problem—you’d have no idea what to _say—_ just an endless turmoil of emotions you aren’t able to pin down and decipher. You’re not even sure if you _want_ to anyway—

All too soon you’re reaching the blast doors that lead into the space port. Din stays outside when you offer to go get his kid from Peli’s care. He’s bundled up in a spare blanket, tucked against Peli’s side— _both_ asleep. Without waking your aunt, you slide him into your arms and make your way back to Mando. The baby whines and cracks his large eyes open. 

“Hello, Creature,” you greet, sweeping a thumb over his large ear. “Dad’s here to pick you up.”

His eyes slide back shut, nuzzling deeper into the swaths of blanket as you hand him back to Din. The Mandalorian happily accepts the little creature and tucks him against his side. _Cute_. 

“How long are you staying?” You’re cracking open another door for him, letting the soft glow of an imaginary future spill past your fingertips even though you _know_ it’s far fetched. He shuts it with a gentle sigh and a weak shake of the head. 

“We’re leaving today. It’s not safe for us here.” 

Your brows furrow. “You’re being _followed?_ ”

The way his shoulders stiffen tell you that it’s a long story. That it runs deeper than just a mere skirmish and bad blood. You don’t like his answer when he tells you the short version of things. Don’t like the way your whole body seizes and doused in a vat of ice water. 

“That’s… _no._ That’s not—the Empire was _destroyed_.” Your breaths turn sharp like frayed lungs hacked at the stem and the cold dread of a returned horror. That part of you, the one that fought tooth and nail for the galaxy perished in the flames of war alongside every friend and ally you’ve lost. To say that something you played a part in ripping to shreds for _good,_ is _back—_ it’s digging up ghosts and dusty skeletons you’ve buried _long_ ago. “Din—the Empire is _gone_." 

“Not all of it. They’re after the kid.” The baby, now awake, squeaks and looks up at Din, his little fingers wrapping around his thumb. “If I stayed any longer I’ll be putting you _both_ at risk.” 

You wrap your arms around yourself and study the tips of your boots. “You’ll be gone for awhile then.”

You lift your head and study the sharp lines of his helmet and the dark strip of visor. His silence carves out the fragile hope cradled in your chest with a rusty knife—throws it at your feet with bloody uncertainty. He chooses silence over hollow promises—could be _years_ or three weeks the next time you see him. Or _never_. 

“Take care, Skitter.”

“Yeah…se ya around, Mando.” 

You watch him leave, the beskar glittering in the early morning sun until he disappears from view. 

You should’ve asked him to take you with. 

**Author's Note:**

> www.jangofctts.tumblr.com


End file.
